


'tis the (god)damn season

by Sanctuaria



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Badass Women of SHIELD, Big Bureaucratic SHIELD, Dancing, F/F, F/M, Hunter is a little shit and we love him for it, Secret dating, Shenanigans, actually you know what they're all like that, betting pools, how i miss those halcyon days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28311249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanctuaria/pseuds/Sanctuaria
Summary: S.H.I.E.L.D. hosts its annualChristmasHolidayYuletideWinter Festivities Party, Victoria and Izzy have a secret, and Hunter and co. have a betting pool, all of which totally do not collide.Oh, and Maria Hill isn’t paid enough for this shit.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Lance Hunter/Bobbi Morse, Victoria Hand/Isabelle Hartley
Comments: 38
Kudos: 41
Collections: Agents of SHIELD Secret Santa 2020





	'tis the (god)damn season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nazezdha321](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nazezdha321/gifts).



> Dear Z, I hope you like it <3 Also, I apologize in advance for how much Vic and Izzy _really_ wanted to fuck, like, throughout this. I pulled them apart as best I could ;)
> 
> Credit for the Maria Hill's voicemail box idea at the start of this fic goes to zedille and their wonderful [Every Other Thursday](https://archiveofourown.org/series/245506) series which I have spoofed here with permission because it is just too hilarious not to. Seriously, if you haven't read 'Missed Calls' yet, do it!! Trust me, you will _die_ of laughter and it will be glorious. 
> 
> Special thanks to Serena for her amazing beta help, despite it being...3:30am, oh god. Title credit goes to the _evermore_ song of a similar name and my lovely fandom wife who's currently yelling at me about what time it is right now and who managed to steal my intended fic title right out from under me 😘

_“You have reached the voicemail box of S.H.I.E.L.D. extension 616504, Agent Maria Hill. I am currently unavailable to take your call, but you may leave a message after the tone. If it is urgent, please contact your direct supervisor or your division commander. If you need immediate unclassified help, please call 911 or your local equivalent. For classified emergencies, the number for the ops center is printed on the back of every S.H.I.E.L.D. ID and is required memorization past clearance level 1. As a reminder, any cafeteria-related incidents are_ not _categorized as emergencies. Thank you for your time. Good day.”_

Beeeeeeep. _“The voicemail box you are trying to reach is now full. Please try again later.”_

* * *

Victoria knocked on the exterior door of the office with two firm raps of her knuckles, then pushed the door open. “Your voicemail box is full.”

Maria looked at her from over the top of the third monitor arrayed across her desk, then nodded at her desk phone, which Victoria noted was two models newer than hers and hanging off the hook. “That’s by design.”

She made a small sound of derision in the back of her throat. “Barton and the cafeteria food again?”

“If only. No, Project Pegasus is saying they’re going to run behind schedule again if we don’t budget another three billion by the end of the year, and Pinsky wants a reassign and if he doesn’t shut up about it I’ll take his ass out of Lagos and stick him in Siberia instead.”

“I can pass the message along if you’d like. He’s in my ops briefing at three.”

Maria gave her a long-familiar _I-wish-but-it-sucks-that-we-are-professionals_ look, then rolled back in her chair, crossing her arms and giving Victoria her full attention. Or as much of her full attention as a Level 8 agent at S.H.I.E.L.D. quickly rising through the ranks ever had to give one individual, as evidenced by the three notification chimes that had already gone off while they were talking. “What did you need?”

“Did you see the email about the Christmas Party?” Victoria asked.

The other woman’s brow furrowed slightly. “The usual, moderately expensive hors d’oeuvres, cheap booze due to the open bar, another night shoving our feet into high heels—”

“ _Christmas_ Party,” Victoria said, careful about her emphasis.

Maria stared at her for a long moment. “This sounds like an HR problem.”

“Yes, it does.”

“I’m not HR.”

“No, but you’re on Fury’s shortlist for Deputy Director, and we all know Nichols is too close to retirement, Blake flubbed the Cancún op, and Garrett’s…Garrett,” Victoria reminded her. “Also, you’re more qualified than any of those smug bastards.”

Maria gave her a faint smile. “Sure you don’t want to send this email yourself? There’ll be paperwork involved.”

Victoria narrowed her eyes, though she and Maria had been friends too long for it to have any effect. “Contrary to popular belief, I do not _like_ paperwork. I like people responsible enough to _do_ their paperwork in a competent manner, and the operational efficiency that comes from keeping detailed records.”

“And this is why Coulson was assigned Barton and Romanoff.”

“I thought it was because I was too valuable for a babysitting assignment?” Victoria raised an eyebrow.

“And too valuable to send a simple email, apparently,” Maria replied with just the right amount of snark.

Victoria smiled anyway. “I’ll save my bullets for the real fight.”

“Sounds like something Hartley would say,” the other woman said.

“Does it?” Victoria countered, voice utterly placid.

Maria affixed her with a hard stare, and Victoria stared right back. After a couple long moments, Maria sighed, pulling herself toward her desk again with the sound of the wheels of her chair rolling against the linoleum. “There’ll be pushback.”

“There always is to progress,” Victoria agreed.

Maria’s eyes were already fixed on the screen, fingers flying across the keyboard. “Every day, I get closer to just feeding them all to Goose.”

“And yet, you never want to be responsible when Fury’s cat hairballs them all out in his office one day,” Victoria said, heading for the door and pausing just in front of it. “If they have questions, you’re welcome to send them my way. Strongly-worded emails may be your specialty, but my voicemail box is at least empty.”

“What are you going to tell them?”

“That I find the assumption that everyone celebrates Christmas short-sighted and propagandizing, that such oversights damage morale and make free-thinking and employees from more diverse backgrounds feel less valued, and that it compromises our efficacy as a global security agency.”

Maria snorted. “Since when do you care about morale?”

“I don’t care about morale,” Victoria said, smiling. “I care about productivity. And dismantling the illicit Christian theocracy under which we all live.” At her friend’s look, she added, “This is why I never went for your job. I like the bureaucracy, hate the politics.”

“Fine,” Maria sighed. “Drinks after work?”

“Sounds good.”

“Hartley coming?”

“No idea,” Victoria responded, her face showing no reaction. She was very careful to keep it from becoming blank, because unless you were Melinda May, _blank_ was still a reaction, and a very telling one at that. She gave a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders to complete the sell. “You should ask. Let me know what she says; I’ll text Mack and Nicole, see if they’re up for it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Maria waved her off. “Get out of my office, Agent Hand.”

She smirked, pulling open the door. “Always a pleasure, Agent Hill.”

* * *

“This. This is true love.”

“Don’t be a sap, Iz.”

“Coulson’s the sap. I’m stating facts,” Izzy told her, and it was with the sort of steel in her eye that Victoria associated with throwing knives and punching jackasses in the nuts. She hoped if Izzy was in that sort of mood, it would be the latter, as she did not need another hole in her wall—arrow-related or otherwise—or she was _really_ not getting that deposit back. Watching a little bit of a brawl would liven up the night’s festivities quite nicely, especially if Izzy chose her target well. And Izzy always chose her target well. “You look good, Victoria.”

Victoria glanced down at the red dress she was wearing with mock disdain. “Well, seeing as you’re the one who gifted it to me, that’s a little self-aggrandizing...” She let her lips quirk upward slightly. “Only for you.”

“Seeing as it’s the only dress in your closet besides the one black one you wear to old white men’s funerals, I can see that,” Izzy replied. She paused, giving her a slow, purposeful, lingering once-over that made Victoria shiver. “ _You look good_ , Victoria,” Izzy repeated with her head slightly tilted, the tiniest fucking smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She believed her, could see the appreciation for herself in the depth of Izzy’s eyes, was all too aware of the faint blush creeping up her own cheeks, the kind she pretended to hate but Izzy loved. “And not just because you’re out of your blazer, though I did wonder if I’d ever see the day…”

Victoria raised an eyebrow, pushing her glasses back up her nose. “You say that like I have only one.”

“ _Nine_ ,” Izzy coughed, but Victoria ignored her.

“Besides,” she continued, letting her voice drop low, “you see me out of a blazer all the time…”

“Yes, I must say, the sight of you in one of my old ops t-shirts...” Izzy grinned at her, leaving the implication unsaid but Victoria heard it anyway, giving her a warm feeling that curled her toes against the hardwood floor and sent a tingle down her spine.

“Not quite what I meant, but I’ll take it,” she said, turning back to the mirror to apply the rest of her lipstick. Once she was done, they switched places with well-practiced ease—Victoria pulling on a pair of black heels from the closet and Izzy, never one to be caught dead in a dress despite her teasing, adjusting the cuffs and smoothing the suit jacket into something that was all crisp lines and pointed angles. Victoria had no complaints about that either, eyes exploring her frame as she wondered how many knives Izzy had managed to conceal within it this time. One in each of the pockets, undoubtedly, but also a few slipped into the waistband, up the sleeves, sown in into the lining… The only people more armed at this event would be Romanoff and Fury himself—Romanoff because the woman was basically a living weapon herself, and Fury because he was a paranoid bastard—and that was the way Izzy liked it.

Victoria liked getting to find find them all later.

“So, the holiday party—” Izzy began, now buttoning the suit jacket with nimble fingers.

“Actually, it’s ‘Winter Festivities’ now,” Victoria told her, collecting her clutch and dropping the tube of lipstick into it, where it nestled next to her car keys, taser, and two emergency tampons, closing it with a _snap_.

Izzy glanced back at her. “When did that change?”

“Thursday,” Victoria replied, the date of the last of _many_ internal meetings that had been held on the subject. “Before that it was ‘Yuletide,’ but, similar issues. And, ‘Holiday Party’—some faiths’ major holidays aren’t in December, and the atheists’ obviously aren’t at all.” She caught the look in Izzy’s eyes and purposefully misinterpreted it anyway. “And before you say anything, yes, the Australian, African, and South American bases are having ’Summer Festivities’ parties; we did not discriminate against the lower hemisphere.”

“You really brought them hell, didn’t you,” Izzy said, and it wasn’t a question.

Victoria smiled. “Yes, yes, I did.” Izzy pulled her in for a kiss and she went willingly, Izzy’s hands threading through the red highlights of her hair to tangle at the base of her skull while Victoria’s fingers found home in her belt loops, hooking through them and dragging her closer.

“We should stop,” Victoria said when they broke apart, their foreheads still resting together and Izzy’s breath warm against her skin.

“Bad idea,” Izzy murmured, lips brushing against hers again, Victoria’s bottom one briefly tugged in between her teeth.

“You’re going to smudge my lipstick. You know this is the expensive stuff.”

Izzy smirked, her tongue darting out to taste it on her own lips. “I do.” By the self-satisfied look in her eyes, she knew _exactly_ what that did to her, but Victoria chose to roll hers instead. “We don’t have to go to the party…we could just stay here…” Izzy’s voice dropped to a whisper, the words curling low around Victoria’s ears and ratcheting the temperature up by ten degrees. “…I can tear this off you…”

“As fun as that sounds,” Victoria said, her own voice turned breathless, “after all the work I put into this party?” She took a forceful, teasing step back, pushing her glasses back up into their proper position. “Not a chance.”

“Now there’s a phrase I never thought I’d hear come out of your mouth,” Izzy said, pouting in mock-offendedness at the rebuff. “Who are you and what have you done with Victoria Hand?”

“After,” Victoria promised with a quirk of her eyebrow, and with a sigh, Izzy’s hands dropped to her sides, releasing her. “So, what were you going to ask? Before we got…distracted.”

“Bobbi and Hunter,” Izzy said.

“Off,” Victoria replied immediately, returning to in front of the mirror and smoothing down the sides of her dress as well as fixing the hair that had been mussed.

“Last I heard there was that thing in Vienna—”

“Oh, that’s new,” Victoria said, with an impressed shake of her head. “Last I had was Ottawa, that op with Mack and something about Hunter treating a beer truck like a getaway van? On, then, I guess.”

“We’ll find out,” Izzy said. “Ready to go, or do you want me to go first?”

“Go first,” Victoria nodded from where she was reapplying her lipstick. “This is your fault, by the way. I’ll be five behind you.”

Izzy winked at her. “You had fun.”

“Always do.”

“See you at the shindig then,” Izzy said, striding toward the bedroom door.

“Also, Iz,” Victoria forestalled her just outside of it. “I hate to break it to you—I’m throwing a blazer over this.”

She caught just the flash of Izzy’s grin before the door slammed, and a playful “Of _course_ you are!” that echoed down the hallway outside of her apartment.

* * *

Victoria’s sleek black S.H.I.E.L.D.-knock-off escalade—hybrid, because environmentalism _was_ important to her despite needing to keep up the charade of arriving in different cars—pulled into the Hub’s parking garage exactly twenty-six minutes later. She activated the parking brake with a quick pump of her foot and turned off the car, grabbing her clutch from the passenger seat and emerging into the dimly lit maze of concrete pillars.

Across the way, another car door slammed. “Victoria?”

“Izzy?”

“Fuck.” Her girlfriend strode quickly toward her, and Victoria purposefully did not let her eyes dip to the sharp creases of her suit and the way they flowed as she moved. “You didn’t take the freeway?”

“I thought you were taking the freeway! I know you hate what the backroads do to your alignment.”

“I do hate what they do to my Jeep. But no, I took them because I-87 is always backed up this time of night on a Friday…”

Victoria shook her head. “Arriving at the same time like a couple of cadets… The _one time_ you don’t drive like a daredevil…”

“As if you obey the speed limit at all times,” Izzy scoffed.

“I do too,” Victoria replied, feigning affront.

“Sure you do, love,” her girlfriend replied, and Victoria pursed her lips at her to keep them from being tugged upward.

“Well, look at the two of you,” a new voice interrupted them, and Victoria turned her body’s sudden need to jump away from Izzy into a smooth turn to greet Maria, whose eyes were wandering between the two of them.

“You dress up nice too, Maria,” Izzy said after a moment’s pause. It was a good save to a close call that never should have happened, and only because it was true—Maria had a way of styling herself that emphasized her figure, professionalism, and ability to handle herself with or without a firearm all at the same time, and it was definitely on display tonight in a form-fitting midnight blue dress complete with silver earrings and a handbag just large enough to fit the .9mm it undoubtedly held. 

After another suspicious—or overly knowing—look at the two of them, Maria sighed. “Unfortunately this is less a party for me and more of a schmooze fest with the Security Council bigwigs. Should have some time after making the rounds though. Think Bobbi brought Hunter?”

“Did you hear about Vienna?” Izzy asked.

“Yeah, but only because Fleet was complaining about extra vehicle cleaning charges. What it is with them and SUVs, I will never know…” Maria said, the three of them beginning to walk toward the elevator.

“Don’t forget to lock your car, Izzy,” Victoria said, knowing full well she had already locked it.

“Damn. Keep forgetting,” she said, hitting the button on her keys again, the satisfying beep echoing through the garage behind them and fully establishing that they had, indeed, come in separate cars.

Maria gave them a hard look but didn’t say anything else as they stepped into the elevator, a few other agents already inside from the lower levels. When the doors opened again, she, Maria, and Izzy stepped out together into the atrium of the Hub. Instead of the usual uncluttered glass-and-chrome look of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s largest base, it appeared white and silver had taken over, starting with the glittering snowflakes extended on razor-thin wires from above and whatever light fixtures were sending flecks of blue light floating across the walls and ceiling in an illusion of snowfall. Someone had strung icicle lights along the bottom of the lit S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle emblazoned on the wall, wrapped a purple scarf around the neck of it, and positioned a purple hat complete with a pom-pom askew atop its head—from the color choice, Victoria was guessing Barton. Ice sculptures lined the walls except for the east one, where the buffet tables were.

Even from this distance, she could spot Bobbi’s bright blonde hair already standing at one of them, and Maria bid them farewell with the long-suffering look of one about to march once again to their death—or in this case, kissing the pasty white asses of the World Security Council—and promised to find them later, “and please, god, let there still be the strong stuff at the bar.”

“We’re arriving together again,” Izzy hissed out of the corner of her mouth as they made a beeline for their friends.

“They’re arguing; they won’t notice,” Victoria replied, and Izzy gave an answering smirk.

Sure enough, Bobbi and Hunter were bickering when they arrived at the buffet table, Hunter waving around what looked to be three large Tupperware containers as he gesticulated and Bobbi unknowingly falling into her Mockingbird stance despite the lack of staves at her back. “If I have to come schmooze at your fancy S.H.I.E.L.D. parties, I’m getting my money’s worth out of this suit,” Hunter was saying, balancing two of the containers between his leg and the edge of the full table while shoveling mini quiches into a third in a wild misuse of how the silver tongs were intended to be used.

“You literally bought that suit at Goodwill,” Bobbi said, but took the full Tupperware from him anyway in the hand that wasn’t balancing a three-olive martini, hold the olives. “Hey Izzy, hey Victoria.”

Victoria pushed her glasses back up her nose with one hand, eyes scanning the table. “If you want the most value for your storage space, you’ll want to avoid the caviar and go for the Beaufort d`ete and Gorau Glas; they were expensive…and imported,” she advised him.

“Cheers,” Hunter told her brightly, before biting back at Bobbi, “See, love, _she_ gets it—”

“Do you even know what those are? They’re _cheese_ —”

“That could be us,” a new voice next to them sighed, and Victoria and Izzy nodded in greeting to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s infamous assassin duo. Though they had made quite a splash when they joined, Victoria had gotten to know them well enough now to know that Barton—dressed in a well-fitting suit and a bandaid across his nose that matched the color of his purple hearing aids—was decidedly less lethal than his reputation suggested, while Romanoff—perfect makeup, a little black dress, and champagne in one hand—was inexplicably even more deadly than hers.

“As if you didn’t already extort those mini quiches out of the caterers when they were unloading,” Natasha replied.

“Extort?” Clint asked. “I didn’t _extort_ …”

“Guy dressed all in black descends from a grappling arrow from the ceiling…” Natasha said, taking another sip of her champagne. “They nearly dropped the oysters, and you know what a tragedy that would be.”

Hunter perked up. “Oi, did you say oysters? Rocky mountain or regular?”

Natasha appraised him with a cool glance. “On a half-shell.”

“Perfect.”

Bobbi smacked his arm. “That’s a recipe for food poisoning, Hunter. And you are not sticking those in the back of my car to stink up the upholstery—”

“I brought a cooler!” he replied, fighting her off and heading down the table in search of oysters with Bobbi following, still squabbling.

“So, that answers that question,” Izzy said, giving Victoria a look that clearly said _I’m-not-drunk-enough-for-this_.

“I’ll grab drinks,” Victoria agreed. “Izzy, Barton, Natasha, do you want anything?”

“He’s not allowed to drink,” Natasha answered for him, casting a half-fond, half-exasperated look his way. “Smacked his head into a doorway in Aberdeen, got a nice little concussion.”

“She ruins all my fun,” Clint said, not looking all that put-out.

“I’ll take another though—Merlot,” Natasha said.

“Champagne, now wine…did they forget to stock vodka for this event?” Victoria asked.

“They won’t serve it straight, and the bartender is much less able to be intimidated than last year,” Natasha drawled. “I’m almost impressed. Something about a very drunken someone stringing mistletoe from all the eighty-foot rafters.”

“Guilty,” Clint said.

“Well, I would have said whiskey, but I guess jack and coke,” Izzy requested with a scowl at Clint. “Thanks.”

When Victoria returned with their drinks, Natasha, Clint, and Izzy had snagged one of the larger tables in the corner, and Clint was busy folding origami birds out of all of the cloth napkins. Leaving their personal effects at the table—as if anyone would dare steal under S.H.I.E.L.D.’s robust network of security cameras, or even worse, from the _Black Widow_ ’s table—they filled plates at the buffet and then returned to share ops stories, Clint regaling them first with a comic reenactment of being chased by a pack of rabid squirrels. Izzy responded with the tale of the time she unknowingly shared a sleeping bag with an exceedingly pissed opossum outside Asunción, which Natasha deigned to one-up with a solemn, matter-of-fact account of the time she’d been ordered to hunker down in the den of a Siberian cave bear armed with nothing but her hunting knife. “Do you remember that scene in _Empire Strikes Back_ with Luke and the tauntaun?” Natasha asked in a quiet voice.

“Holy shit, Natasha, you didn’t,” Izzy said, and Natasha met her gaze with a somber tinge of regret in her green eyes.

It was ruined, of course, by Clint bursting into laughter beside her. Natasha shot him a dirty look before grinning and joining in herself, causing a dramatic release of tension and both Izzy and Victoria to roll their eyes.

Eventually, Bobbi and Hunter rejoined them in much better spirits and with the Tupperware mysteriously disappeared—probably into the back of Bobbi’s car—and full plates themselves. The conversation took a turn to their personal lives, Clint and Natasha asking the questions instead of answering them, Bobbi recounting her recent trip back to San Diego to see her parents, and Izzy talking about the last time she’d been out west to see Jane and the kids, little twin terrors that they were, in Victoria’s fond opinion.

“Izzy,” Hunter said all of a sudden, pointing his beer bottle at her. “You seeing anyone yet?”

Victoria pointedly ignored the bolt of adrenaline that stabbed through her chest at the question and the tingling sensation that ran through her fingers and toes, turning instead to look at her girlfriend with one eyebrow raised in innocent curiosity.

“Hunter,” Bobbi said in a half-baked attempt to rein him in, though she too was glancing not-so-subtly between Victoria and Izzy. Clint turned his hearing aids up.

She internally grimaced and pretended not to feel the thrum of excitement in her veins. So _that’s_ how it was.

“No, no, I got a point,” Hunter said, not really sounding as if he’d rehearsed it but not quite _not_ sounding like they had either. In other words, they needed new friends. Victoria wondered if you could put out a Craigslist ad for that kind of thing these days, and if so, whether a forty-page questionnaire would be considered ‘too extra.’ “‘Cause if not, I have this mate Idaho, think you two’d get on like a house on fire. Well, you might both _set_ a house on fire—” Hunter grinned. “—but that’s part of the fun.”

“I’m not seeing anyone, no,” Izzy replied, calming some of the hammering of her heart with the unaffected lilt to the words, as if she was commenting on something mundane as the weather, although how well she handled it made Victoria want to smirk. Or kiss her. Perhaps both. People thought of Victoria as the one who _handled_ , the overly capable one who kept everything clean, orderly, and precise. Izzy was the firecracker, sweeping in like a whirlwind to tear shit up and leaving people not knowing quite what hit them, but even in settings where knifing someone or exploding something was not an option, Izzy was plenty capable herself, and Victoria loved that about her. “Doesn’t mean I want to be set up by the likes of you, Hunter.”

“I have _very good_ matchmaking skills,” he replied, affronted.

“Well…” Bobbi was wavering. “You did try to set Coulson up with _May_ the first time you met them,” she reminded him. “She’s _married_.”

“But she wasn’t wearing a ring! How was I supposed to know—”

“Besides,” Izzy cut him off. “Idaho? I could never date a guy named after a state anyway.” She smirked. “Especially _that_ state. I could never keep in the mockery long enough to make it work.”

“You never know; he could have been named after the potato,” Victoria offered in complete deadpan, and Izzy and Hunter both snorted loudly before they could stop themselves, Bobbi nearly spilling her martini mid-sip. A foot bumped hers under the table, twining around her ankle, and Victoria didn’t have to look to know whose it was. She tapped her foot in a familiar rhythm against the other, .. / .- -.. --- .-. . / -.-- --- ..-

If their friends were going to be like this, well, Victoria was going to take her satisfaction where she could get it, including in this case secretly communicating in Morse code right under Bobbi’s nose.

_I adore you._

And Izzy’s foot, tapping right back, a mix of long and short— _I adore you too_.

Coulson showed up about fifteen minutes later after the conversational topics had changed again and as the last of their food was disappearing off their plates, May only three minutes behind him if the shove of Hunter’s elbow into Bobbi’s side was anything to go by. The specialist sat down heavily in the empty seat at his right that was not covered in Barton’s napkin origami, then growled at him, “I will give you $500 to switch shoes with me.”

“Too much dancing with Andrew?” he asked sympathetically. “Hey, at least that Academy class was good for something.”

May gave him an unamused stare.

“Speaking of,” Bobbi said, looking around at them. “We should at least get some in before the night is over. Clint, Tasha?”

They exchanged looks, unspoken words flying thick and fast between them. Natasha drew up one silky leg from under the table and poked him in the shoulder with the tip of her shoe. “Else you’ll get rusty.”

“Well, not all of us can be trained ballet dancers…” Clint grumbled. “You know what they didn’t teach in the circus? Ballroom dance.”

Bobbi turned to them with effortless nonchalance, but Victoria had watched the Mockingbird take apart too many marks in interrogation to fall for that. “Victoria, Izzy?”

“Together?” Izzy asked with a wrinkle of her nose that absolutely made Victoria want to kiss it off her, if she wasn’t a _professional_.

“Pass,” Victoria agreed, watching the flash of frustration in Bobbi’s blue eyes with satisfaction. “You have fun, though.”

“Bok bok bok.” Every head at the table turned to look at Hunter, who looked thoroughly unabashed. May’s eyebrows had risen as far as Victoria had ever seen them, and Coulson seemed to be questioning his choice of table.

“Excuse me?” Victoria asked coolly after a moment of silence.

“It’s the sound a chicken makes,” Hunter replied, though his gaze was placed squarely on Izzy. A good choice too, Victoria was not so easily goaded but she could already see the muscle jumping in her girlfriend’s jaw as she stared him down. “ _Bok bok bok_ …”

“A British chicken, maybe,” Izzy replied.

“You scared, love?”

“Of Vic—” She could hear the slight stumble as she said her name, but she doubted anyone else was as familiar with the cadence of Izzy’s voice to notice it. “—toria?” She glanced at her. “Well, she might not be able to take you apart with her pinky like most people at this table—you excepted, no offense Coulson—but if you’re not afraid of her, you should be.”

“None taken,” Coulson said with slight exasperation.

“Of dancing,” Hunter said, brown eyes sparkling with challenge. “Though you will need a willing partner, of course. _If_ you’re not scared.”

Izzy scowled at him, then turned. “Coulson? Heard you got top marks in Cavanaugh’s dance elective; I trust you not to step on my toes.” She smiled at him, something that might have been saccharine on someone else but with Izzy was all bite and…knives. 

“Oh, so _now_ it’s flattery…” She tilted her head slightly, and Coulson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He glanced between Bobbi, Hunter, and Izzy again, eyes darting quickly to Victoria once as Bobbi’s hardened. “I mean, sure, I’ll…” He winced in pain suddenly, possibly a reaction to May stomping on his foot under the table. Victoria took in the expression on May’s face—exasperation, determination, eyes alight with interest—and changed that to _definitely_. “I mean, I would, but I…hurt my ankle,” Coulson lied. Badly. “…Tripping.”

“Tripping over what?” Izzy asked.

“One of Clint’s bows?” She rolled her eyes but turned away anyway.

_“Bok bok—”_

Izzy gave a heavy sigh. “Victoria? What do you say?” She gave a sharp thrust of her chin. “Just so these _assholes_ get off my case.”

“Fine,” Victoria groused, not sounding the least bit happy about it, picking herself up from her seat. With matching grins—well, no, Bobbi’s was a tad more muted in its triumph, and Hunter’s entirely shit-eating—Bobbi and Hunter disappeared toward the section of the atrium cordoned off for dancing, where the music was emanating loudest, Clint and Natasha evaporating entirely as S.H.I.E.L.D.’s premier assassins were wont to do.

“Guess we better get this over with,” Izzy said for Coulson and May’s benefit. Her hip bumped subtly against Victoria’s as they made their way over as well, passing Mack and Nicole who were holding each other more than dancing and gazing into each other’s eyes in a way that would have outdone even Coulson’s usual level of sappy. They found a an empty spot on the right in time for a slower, still vaguely-holiday-themed song to start playing.

“I swear they planned this,” Victoria muttered as she turned to face Izzy. Her eyes fell on Natasha, standing next to the speaker system. The Black Widow sent her a lazy wink, and Victoria sent her back a flat-eyed murder stare, though she doubted it would have much effect on the Russian assassin. “ _Definitely_ planned this.”

“Yeah, but now we have an excuse to dance,” Izzy whispered. “And drive them crazy.”

Victoria’s lips curved upwards as she slid her hand into Izzy’s, enjoying the warmth that flared like sparks across her skin. “I like the way you think.”

“Oh, I _know_ you do,” Izzy said, tugging her forward until a scant few millimeters separated their bodies; she could feel the edges of her suit jacket through the material of her dress. Izzy’s other hand found its way to her waist and then the small of her back. Victoria shivered at the contact and stepped involuntarily closer as everything else seemed to fall away, only a thin thread of awareness connecting them to the outside world, reminding them that they were at work, that others were watching. “You like the way I do other things too.”

“Iz,” Victoria said as they began to sway to the music, something within her slotting into place within the familiarity of Izzy’s arms. “Try not to look like you’re enjoying this so much.”

“I am enjoying this…and I shall enjoy reporting back to them that it was a very nice time but nothing to write home about,” she replied, dark eyes full of laughter, crinkled on the edges.

Victoria shot her a withering look. “Of course you will.” Izzy’s fingers tightened on her back, splayed warm against her, and anchoring them together as they continued to sway in a small circle. She drew in a deep, slow breath, resisting the urge to rest her head on Izzy’s shoulder and compromising with squeezing her hand three times, her thumb tracing lightly over her knuckles.

“Twirl for me?” Izzy asked.

Victoria scoffed deep in her throat, giving the expected response: “I don’t twirl.”

“Oh yes you do.” Her girlfriend shook her head with a flash of teeth and a wickedly sharp smile. “You do it _very_ well. Now come on.” She released the hand on the small of her back, extending her other hand still linked with Victoria’s outwards.

“This is the dress all over again,” Victoria huffed, conceding anyways. The rest of the atrium spun around her in a fast-moving blur of blue and white, soft fabric swishing around her thighs and the remnants of champagne lingering on her tongue, before she found herself back in Victoria’s arms again, fighting to keep the smile off her face. “Happy?”

“With you? Always,” Izzy whispered, all pretense and barbs and banter falling away as she gazed at Victoria with the kind of softness that she associated with gray, early mornings or stolen late nights or the arrival of a new, miniaturized knife prototype. She could feel the rhythm being stroked across her back now with each simple swipe and tap of Izzy’s thumb: .. / .- -.. --- .-. . / -.-- --- ..-

Victoria dipped her head, hiding her expression behind the red streaks in her dark hair, and mouthed her response back just for Izzy to see, watching the warmth in her eyes broaden and deepen until it was just the two of them caught in one timeless moment, lights of the dance floor winking around them like hundreds of little stars.

When the song ended, Victoria and Izzy stepped apart, making their way back to the table with the hands close to brushing but not quite touching. Their friends, surprising no one and certainly not the two of them, surrounded them like piranhas. “So, how was it?” Hunter demanded, looking far too eager. “Fun, yeah?”

“All right,” Izzy shrugged, plopping down at the table.

“Just all right?” he spluttered, following her lead.

“Nothing to write home about,” Victoria said, sitting down and tucking her legs neatly beneath her under the chair, crossing her ankles. She turned to Natasha. “The nice thing about being a lesbian is no men stepping all over your toes.”

“Tell me about it,” the redhead groused. “When off-op, somehow Clint always has two left feet.”

“Yeah, except when women trod on you, they stab you with their pointy, three-inch heels,” Hunter grumbled.

“That was _one_ time, and the nurse said your foot was fine,” Bobbi said.

“Yeah, after two stitches!” Hunter shuffled around under the table, and before Victoria knew it he was waving his foot in the air as he struggled to get his right dress shoe off without bothering to untie it. “As if you need any more bloody height!” The sole swung wildly toward Bobbi’s face and she ducked with impressive reflexes, accidentally knocking over Natasha’s mostly empty wine glass and sending dark currant liquid seeping across the tablecloth.

“ _Shit_!”

“ _Hunter!_ ”

“Well, this looks fun,” someone commented from the other side of the table. Maria surveyed their motley group—May with her heels already disposed of; Coulson, scrambling to sop some of it up but with nothing to do it with; and Bobbi and Hunter interrupted mid-bicker.

“We saved you a spot,” Clint said cheerily after a second, gesturing at the one empty seat at the table.

Champagne in one hand, Maria glanced down at all the origami bird napkins littering her place setting. “I can see that.”

Coulson grabbed one of the bird napkins with a, “Here, Maria, I’ll move this for you,” and dropped it directly in the wine puddle, helping soak some of it up.

“My bird!” Clint exclaimed, aghast. Natasha gave him a pitying look before proceeding to mop the rest of it with the napkin.

“So, besides avian murder and costing us money in white tablecloths, what have you all been up to while I’ve been forced to schmooze?”

Hunter perked up immediately. “Vic and Izzy have been—” He waggled his eyebrows, looking entirely like the cat that ate the canary. “— _dancing_.” He looked closely at their placid faces, eyes darting from one to another and back again. “Nothing?!” he demanded, checking his watch.

“Somewhere to be?” Victoria asked shrewdly.

“No, there’s just only another two hours until—” Hunter’s mouth shut with a snap. “Never mind.”

“Until _what_?” Izzy asked, leaning forward. Victoria caught a flash of metal near her chest and recognized the arrival of one of her many knives—and by the sudden paling of a certain Lance Hunter’s face, he did too.

“Until…midnight?” he tried. “Midnight of December 22nd, it’s a very important date, you know, some people are even saying it’s the new New Year’s Eve—New Year’s Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve—” He paused to count on his fingers. “—Eve?”

“ _Is that so_ ,” Izzy said, her voice low and dangerous.

“Yes?” Hunter squeaked. Bobbi shot him a death glare that was only two lumens below May’s patented one, and Natasha looked like she would have liked to dump a glass of wine over his head if only hers hadn’t christened the tablecloth minutes before.

“Out with it.”

“Wemight’vemadeabettingpoolonwhenthetwoofyouwouldgettogetherandImight’vebetontheslotthatendstonightbecauseofthepartypleasedon’tknifeme.”

“Come again?” Victoria asked, her tone flat. It was official; she was definitely looking into that Craigslist thing later tonight.

“We might’ve made a betting pool on when the two of you would get together and I might’ve bet on the slot that ends tonight because of the party please don’t knife me,” Hunter clarified with a gulp.

“Betting… _pool_ ,” Victoria said, her eyes flashing to each of her friend’s faces. “How many of you went in on this, exactly?”

“The pot’s at $560 now,” Clint said, not looking quite as abashed as he should have.

“Leave me out of this,” Maria said, leaning back in her chair. “I _knew_ , but I didn’t _participate_.”

“Look,” Bobbi cut in before she could posit that that wasn’t much of a consolation, or maybe that she was going through with her Craigslist idea. If any of the applicants turned out to be creeps, Iz could take them out. “You’re both great agents, but Izzy’s field and you’re comms, and you’re not trained specialists. If we couldn’t tell that there was attraction between the two of you, we’d be pretty bad at our jobs.” Bobbi flashed her a smile. “It’s tools of the trade. Now that you know, if you two’d just get your acts together…”

Victoria picked up her champagne flute, scanning the rest of their faces; only Natasha appeared shrewd while the rest in varied amounts of _shit-we-just-got-caught-dammit-Hunter_. Her gaze fell on Izzy last. _Should we give them a present?_ Izzy’s eyes seemed to say.

Victoria quirked her lips. _’Tis the goddamn season, after all._ She threw back the rest of her drink. “All right, well, anyone have last January?”

Everyone around the table froze.

“Last…January? _January_?” Hunter asked, his voice colored with disbelief and cracking on the last syllable.

“Well, that’s when we filed the appropriate forms with HR,” Victoria replied with a shrug. “If you want to know the first time we kissed, or the first time we had sex—”

“No!” he said quickly. Clint was already looking into his empty wallet forlornly, Natasha vaguely happier but still pretty pissed, and Coulson like someone had trodden on Natasha’s cat that he totally-only-babysat-sometimes-and-definitely-wasn’t-emotionally-attached-to. “ _No_. Stop. You’ve been—eleven months—you’ve been official—” His mouth worked for another couple seconds before he rounded on Maria, eye twitching and a vein on his forehead going haywire. “Hill, WHY DIDN’T YOU _SAY ANYTHING_?”

Victoria and Izzy smiled, altogether pleased with themselves. Maria only scowled at them both, at the world in general, but mostly at Hunter, reaching for her own champagne glass. “ _I’m not HR_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all feedback appreciated <3


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